


reprise

by bronigiri



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Miya Atsumu, Brief depictions of underage sex, Canon Compliant, Getting Back Together, Growing Up, Introspection, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drinking, Sibling Incest, Smut, past Miya Atsumu/Hinata Shouyou, past Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25192081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronigiri/pseuds/bronigiri
Summary: The Miya twins fall apart, only to fall back together again.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Miya Osamu
Comments: 18
Kudos: 312





	reprise

**Author's Note:**

> For Miyacest Week: Day 1 - 'Memories'. Please check the tags for CWs.
> 
> The KBBQ scene is mostly based off of a dream I had. I was only going to write that part at first, but then it got long because it turns out I have too many Feelings™ about these two.

On a dreary Friday afternoon, Osamu gets a text from an old friend. Sato is a friend he and Atsumu went to middle school with, and now that he’s in town again he wants to have a little reunion. Osamu hasn’t seen him in a while, so he texts back a thumbs up, and clears his schedule this evening for a night of Korean barbeque and beer.

 _Where’s Atsumu? Do ya know if he’s around or not?_ Sato texts him. _He read it but hasn’t replied. I gotta make the reservation._

It’s exhausting, being thought of as an extension to his brother. Especially recently, as Atsumu climbs to the peak of his volleyball career. But exhaustion isn’t the primary feeling that sends a twinge through Osamu’s chest.

 _I dunno, haven’t heard from him in a while myself,_ says Osamu. A half-baked truth. 

_Ah okay,_ Sato replies. _Hope he’s not too cool for us now (lol). I’ll count him in for now._

Osamu snorts, pockets his phone, and gets back to work.

— 

(It wasn’t always like this. They used to be inseparable. Insatiable.

“Where’s Atsumu?” Ginjima called out from right outside the bathroom door.

Atsumu, like the dumbass he was, opened his mouth to reply. Osamu quickly shut him off by clapping a hand over his mouth. He was still inside of Atsumu, having pinned his brother up against the wall in the boys’ bathroom, where they thought they wouldn’t be found. It was difficult to force himself not to move when Atsumu’s hips were twitching like a caught animal.

“No idea,” Aran replied to Ginjima. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Osamu either. Maybe the two of them went home already.”

The four of them took the same route home, but Osamu didn’t think they’d actually _wait up._ It wasn’t like they walked home together every day.

“Atsumu owes me money from when I bought him lunch,” said Ginjima. “I was gonna use it to buy Jump on my way home, but he hasn’t paid me back.”

Osamu glared daggers at Atsumu. Atsumu bit down hard on Osamu’s fingers, and Osamu bit his own lip to keep from shouting.

“I’ll just lend you the money,” said Aran. “C’mon, let’s head out.”

Their footsteps grew more and more distant. Osamu grabbed onto Atsumu’s hips and began pounding into him relentlessly until Atsumu cried out, tears budding at the corners of his eyes as he came violently over his own stomach, staining his black t-shirt with white.

He sank to a crouch afterwards, shuddering as he caught his breath. Osamu leaned against the bathroom stall, chest heaving, and said, “When we get home, it’s your turn to do laundry.”)

— 

At half-past three, Osamu looks up from working to see Kageyama Tobio on the television. It’s that damn curry ad again, so out of character for him that it makes even Osamu laugh. Not that Osamu really knows him all that well. Atsumu had always been the one who was more invested in their rivals. Thinking about them day and night, picking apart their skillsets for a weak point he could chip away at. 

Though, if Osamu really thinks about it, the spite Atsumu displayed was really just the way that his passion manifested itself. He loved volleyball so much it consumed his every waking moment. It consumed Osamu too, the way an unchecked fire spreads to its surroundings. It took Osamu years of playing alongside Atsumu to realize that his own fire ignited for something else entirely.

On the television screen, Kageyama is deadpan as he compares the curry to a power serve. Osamu smiles to himself and continues wrapping his onigiri.

A customer walks in, and he says, “Welcome to Onigiri Miya.”

—

( _“A quarrel between brothers doesn’t last overnight.”_

That was the old saying their mother used to repeat whenever they fought, which was quite literally every single day. But at the end of the day, all they had to do was play Winning Eleven together in silence to be reminded of simplicity, of comfort, and of how no matter what, at the end of the day they went to sleep under the same roof.

There was a moment back then, during their second year, when Osamu thought their relationship would not survive his decision to quit volleyball. 

Atsumu hadn’t talked to him for three days. Not even during practice. Their teammates were definitely noticing, and talking amongst themselves on what to do when Kita wasn’t there to put his foot down.

The silence was stifling, so Osamu had spoken up, and given Atsumu a piece of his mind. And Atsumu had said this: _When we’re on our deathbeds, I’m gonna turn and look you right in your face, and say I had the happier life._

Normal people would hardly call it an apology. But for them, it was enough. Just the implicit acknowledgement that they would always be _there_ for each other, clawing at each other, competing on who would live longer and happier even in their old age— that alone made the unease in Osamu’s stomach go away.

That night, for the first time that week, Atsumu snuck into Osamu’s bunk while their parents were asleep. They jerked each other off, panting against each other’s shoulders until they shuddered and came apart in unison. Even if they drifted apart, they would always circle back around again, inevitable in the same way the planets orbited the sun.)

— 

The hat Osamu wears to keep the hair out of his face doubles as a shield against unwanted attention. It doesn’t always work. The customer spends far too long making eyes at him before she finally gives up and leaves. 

“Ah, Osamu,” one of his part-time employees, Watanabe, sighs. “You’re young and handsome. You can cook and run a business. How are you still single?” She’s a mother of three, and treats everyone like her own son, gossip included. He doesn’t mind— she works efficiently while she talks.

“It’s not a priority,” he replies. It’s true that it hasn’t been at the forefront of his mind. But it’s not like he hasn’t put himself out there. He’s gone on dates with acquaintances, but found no chemistry. He’s tried dating apps, but gotten way too many uncomfortable questions about his resemblance to Miya Atsumu.

But the fundamental problem is this:

He doesn’t want to. There’s a part of him that still lives in his childhood home, in that cramped bedroom with no air conditioning, fumbling desperately in the dark against a body shaped just like his own.

— 

(On their last day of high school, the two of them sat at the dinner table. Their parents were out of town, so Osamu was in charge of making dinner. Atsumu blew at a spoonful of soup, complaining that Osamu always made it too hot. Osamu ignored him and watched the shape of his mouth.

“Suna asked me out today.” 

Atsumu dropped his spoon. “Huh?” 

“Suna. You know, from our volleyball team,” Osamu appended, though he knew it was petty. “He asked me on a date.”

Something dark crossed Atsumu’s face, the kind of look he got when Osamu failed to spike a perfect set from Atsumu. But in an instant, it was gone and Atsumu was guffawing with laughter.

“Hah! As if anyone in their right mind would like _you_.”

Osamu rolled his eyes. “I’m asking you a _question_.”

Atsumu blinked. Once, then twice, then—

“Oh,” said Atsumu. He snorted and crossed his arms defensively. His scowl was tight and forced. “It’s about time someone took you off my hands. I’m fuckin’ sick of seeing you around the house all day.” 

Osamu knew it was stupid to play games like this when they both clearly knew what was on the other’s mind. But Atsumu started it. Osamu had come right out and asked, and Atsumu had refused to give his honest answer. That alone pissed Osamu off enough to get him to make up his mind.

“Fine, then,” he said, jaw clenched tight. “I won’t be home for dinner tomorrow. Tell Mom to make less curry.”

Atsumu looked at him, wide-eyed like he just lost a game. 

“Fine, then,” said Atsumu. “Do whatever you want.”)

— 

It’s nearly six in the evening now, and Sato had asked them to meet at six-thirty. Factoring in some time for transit, that meant Osamu should leave within the next ten minutes. 

They usually close the shop at nine, so Osamu instructs Watanabe to lock up the shop after he’s gone. They don’t get that many customers after dinner time, so he’s sure she’ll be fine by herself, but he asks her to text him anyways if something comes up. He digs out the key from the cupboard and drops it in her hand. 

He wonders if Atsumu will show up tonight.

— 

(After they moved out, there was no more Winning Eleven to fall back on.

Things were different. Osamu had to adjust, and if he had to guess, Atsumu was having a hard time doing the same. It wasn’t a matter of not _knowing,_ because between the two of them they had always _known_ how important they were to each other. No— it was a matter of pride, and who could toss theirs aside first. 

As the older one, it probably should’ve been Osamu. But he couldn’t do it somehow. Not even after he and Suna inevitably split up.

Instead, four months after their initial argument, Osamu received an envelope in the mail from “‘Tsumu.” Just ‘Tsumu. There was no paper inside, only something small and heavy. Osamu opened it, tilted the envelope, and let a golden metal key fall into his hand. 

Osamu sat there, letting the weight of a thousand words rest in the palm of his hand before closing his fist around it and running out the door. He took the train all the way to Atsumu’s new apartment, small and dingy and looking just like his own. He turned the key in the lock, and entered.

Atsumu was sitting on the floor with one leg tucked underneath him, resting his back against the front of his couch like an idiot instead of sitting on it. He looked up and his eyes widened for a moment before settling into his trademark smirk.

“Hey, fuckface,” said Atsumu, and Osamu had never wanted to hug anybody more.

“Hey, shithead,” said Osamu. He sat down on the floor next to Atsumu like an idiot, too, and set his 7-11 bag on the coffee table. “I brought onigiri.”)

— 

Just as Osamu has changed out of his uniform and is about to head out for the day, an unexpected customer shows up. 

It’s Karasuno’s manager. He’s forgotten her name, but she provides him with it: Yachi Hitoka. She’s working at a design firm and is here on a one-night business trip. Her schedule is busy with client meetings, so she doesn’t have time for a proper dinner, and she figured she’d get something to-go from a place she recognized. She asks him to recommend her a flavour.

“Actually,” says Osamu on a whim, “would you mind doing a taste-test for me? You can have this one for free.” He takes an onigiri out of the fridge and hands it to her. It’s the new recipe he’s been working on. Watanabe’s the only one who’s tried it so far, but she gets excited about everything, so he can’t be sure her feedback is trustworthy. 

“O-of course! Thank you so much!” She unwraps it and takes a bite. He watches expectantly as the expression on her face changes from surprise, to awe, to a comforted kind of happiness. Yeah. That’s what he was hoping for.

“It’s _super_ good!” Yachi swallows and gives him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Mmm, how do you say it? I think it tastes like nostalgia. It brings back this _feeling_ — like, you’d want to eat this with your family at the dinner table.”

Osamu stares at her blankly. 

“Oh, I’m sorry! I’m just rambling again. Don’t mind me! I just like the idea that food brings people together. I think if you introduced this flavour, a lot of people would like it.” says Yachi. “Ah, but if you’re heading out now, then I won’t keep you. It was really good seeing you again, Miya-san! To be honest, I used to be scared of you and your brother.” She laughs sheepishly. “But you’re actually really nice! And your onigiri tastes so _warm_.”

She waves him goodbye. He watches her walk out the door, her back straight and no longer the hyper, nervous girl he remembers. They’ve all changed since then.

“She’s pretty,” says Watanabe, nudging him in the side and waggling her eyebrows.

“Sure,” Osamu shrugs. “Not interested, though.” 

As he leaves the shop, three more customers go to line up. Life is good. Work is busy. Business is booming. Going to business school and opening Onigiri Miya was the right decision. He doesn’t doubt that.

There’s only one thing, one person, that keeps him up at night. 

_When we’re on our deathbeds,_ Atsumu had said, _I’m gonna turn and look you right in your face, and say I had the happier life._

In the back of his mind, Osamu concedes: _Probably_. _But not for the reasons you think._

— 

(The last text message Osamu had received from Atsumu, three weeks ago, was a LINE sticker of the MSBY Black Jackals’ mascot. 

Osamu scrolled back up to it more times than he could count, bypassing all of his own unanswered texts.

 _[June 20, 22:05]_ _  
_ > _this ugly drunk guy with a bad dye job stopped by the shop today. reminded me of you_

 _[June 26, 21:32]_ _  
_ > _mom’s been dropping hints that she wants a LV handbag for her birthday. i’m expecting you to contribute 90% since you earn way more than me_

 _[June 28, 23:57]_ _  
_ _ >okay jeez. i get the hint. let’s split the cost _

And the most recent one, asking something he never did:

 _[July 5, 20:59]_ _  
_ _ >what are you up to? _

Three weeks was nothing. They went four months without talking to each other, once. He knew better than anyone how intense Atsumu could get when he was focused on something. A new training regime, perhaps. A social media detox? Some of the online comments could get vicious. Osamu had a personal collection of Reddit throwaway accounts which he used solely to defend Atsumu’s honour, though he’d rather die than admit it.

Here’s the thing. Everything was fine since the time Atsumu gave Osamu the key. Osamu would show up, and they’d hang out just like old times, and they would talk about everything and nothing all at once. If Atsumu ever walked out of the shower shirtless, then Osamu would look away. And if Osamu ever missed his train and stayed the night, then he’d sleep on the couch.

Life went on. Osamu graduated from business school, got a culinary certification, and launched Onigiri Miya. Atsumu became a regular on the Jackals’ starting lineup. Hinata Shoyo joined their ranks, and he and Atsumu started dating. When it happened, Osamu was not surprised and barely bitter. If anyone could keep up with his brother, it was Hinata Shoyo. 

So he continued to go to Atsumu’s volleyball games to sell onigiri, and Atsumu continued to do taste testing for Onigiri Miya once in a while. Sometimes they worked out together, and other times they fought, and other times they just enjoyed each other’s company, like brothers should.

Because there was no reason not to. No reason, except for another pair of volleyball shoes parked at the door when Osamu had long since boxed up his own. No reason, except for a foreign t-shirt flung over the back of the very couch where he’d stayed up until three in the morning to watch sappy romcoms with Atsumu. If he hadn’t used the key at all lately, then that was because he was busy with work.

Three weeks.

Atsumu had probably never waited three weeks to send a text back to Hinata Shoyo.)

—

When Osamu arrives at the Korean barbeque place, Sato and two other guys are already there. They greet him with a warm welcome and a one-armed hug. Osamu sits down and they order a round of beer as they wait for the other guys to show up. 

Of course it’s when they’re all squished next to each other and have already ordered the food that Atsumu finally shows his face. 

“Sorry guys,” says Atsumu coolly with a wave. “Practice ran late.” His hair is dishevelled from the wind, his MSBY Black Jackals jacket tied around his waist like he actually made the effort to run here. He looks at Osamu for a long moment before diverting his eyes again.

Sato grins. “No problem— hey, it’s good to see you!”

They clap him on the back, and some of the guys joke about getting his autograph. Meanwhile, Osamu finds it bitterly amusing that the two guys to his left actually get out of their seats so that Atsumu can crowd in next to Osamu. Their thighs are touching. Atsumu’s skin is warm against his own. Atsumu takes a long swig from Osamu’s mug of beer, as if it was his to begin with, as if Atsumu hasn’t been ignoring his texts for weeks.

Osamu orders another round of soju for everyone. He and Atsumu pick up their glasses at the same time, and chug it down cleanly before slamming it down on the table. 

More drinks fill their table, and more food, too. A sizzling hot plate of samgyeopsal appears in front of Osamu, and in his alcohol-induced haze he swears it looks like religious imagery. The smoke drifts towards him and he inhales the smell of all things holy, his mouth already watering. He controls himself and manages to grill the meat, flipping the pieces on their sides while his friends laugh and joke and act too inebriated to do the grilling themselves. He hates being the _mom friend._ It’s times like these that he misses Kita. 

The meat’s done, so he tells everyone to get it themselves because he’s not going to feed them all like they’re babies. Atsumu reaches a hand out towards it and Osamu swats it away.

The angry look in Atsumu’s eye is probably unwarranted. “What, ya got a problem with me?”

“No, you fucking dingus,” says Osamu through gritted teeth. “Your diet, remember? You’re not supposed to eat meats with too much fat in them. I cooked for you for years.” _Till Shoyo started staying over,_ a voice pipes up in the back of his head.

“Oh. Right.” 

Still, it doesn’t explain why Atsumu pouts and sulks for the next ten minutes, chugging drinks like a petulant kid throwing a tantrum.

“You shouldn’t drink so much, either,” says Osamu, nudging Atsumu in the side. 

Atsumu nudges him back twice as hard and chugs another shot of soju. He licks his lips and stares Osamu down.

“Fine,” says Osamu. “Die, then.” 

At some point the conversation around them takes a turn for the weirder. There’s an attractive pop star featured in a soju ad on the wall behind them, and Sato has apparently taken a liking to her and is now gathering votes on who would and wouldn’t sleep with her.

“Nope,” says Osamu.

“Yep,” says Atsumu. 

“Pfft, aren’t you gay, Atsumu?” says Sato. “I thought you were dating that guy on your team. It was all over the news.”

“Nah, we broke up,” says Atsumu. “And that’s bi erasure! They didn’t call me the _dual wielder_ for nothin’.” 

Osamu snorts into the back of his hand despite himself. Still, the question blooms in his mind. “When’d you break up?”

Atsumu shrugs. “A few weeks ago.”

“Is that why you haven’t been answering my texts? I had to get Yachi Hitoka to taste-test my new recipe. Of all people.”

“I ignored everybody, it’s nothin’ personal! Actually, scratch that, it’s personal _now._ What the hell were you doing hanging out with Yachi Hitoka?”

“Why’s _that_ what you care about?” Osamu’s heart beats all the way into his throat. This conversation is edging towards dangerous territory. Their friends are still there, though only half-listening. 

“Because—” Atsumu seems to pick up on it, too. He slumps in his seat and says, “Forget it.” 

They drink in relative silence. Atsumu sneaks a piece of samgyeopsal into his mouth when he thinks Osamu’s not looking. Or maybe he does it because he knows Osamu is looking.

The sky outside turns pitch black, and their chattering grows ever louder. So loud that Osamu almost misses it when Atsumu’s arm snakes around Osamu’s own, his grip tight yet gentle, and says— 

“I missed you.”

Simple, blunt, and more honest than anything else Atsumu has said all night. Osamu’s heart kicks painfully at his chest. He struggles to push down the wellspring of emotion bursting inside him and turn it into spite. Because that’s what they’re used to. Because pushing each other’s buttons is easier than dealing with whatever has lingered between them for years.

“If you miss me, just look in the mirror,” says Osamu. “Picture somebody ten times more attractive, and there you have it.” 

“Fuck you,” says Atsumu with no bite. He leans on Osamu’s shoulder and nudges his face against it. His face is burning hot— he’s really drunk. “It’s not the same. I miss… when you were always there. When you’d kick my ass and call me a shithead just ‘cause. When you’re not here it’s like— half of me is gone.” 

This is crazy. Atsumu’s cheeks are bright red, and he’s draped all over Osamu, and their _friends_ are _right there_. And all Osamu wants to do is kiss Atsumu silly, right there in front of everyone. 

“Come on, ’Tsumu,” says Osamu decisively, hauling Atsumu up by a very heavy arm. “We’re goin’ home.” 

“Whaaat? But I’ve only had—” Atsumu trails off, and when he’s drunk enough to resort to finger counting, that’s when Osamu knows it’s bad. “I dunno, but it wasn’t enough. I wanna drink more.” 

“Come _on_. Will you listen to me for once in your damn life.” 

Atsumu acquiesces. Osamu picks him up and drops their share of cash on the table. Most of their friends are too drunk to care, anyway. They’re used to the two of them moving as a unit, and so they just wave a half-hearted goodbye with glazed eyes and reddened cheeks.

Osamu hails a cab for them, giving Atsumu’s address because it’s closer, and mentally adds half the fare to Atsumu’s tab. He wonders if Atsumu ever paid Ginjima back for that lunch, many years ago, and starts laughing to himself. 

Atsumu quirks up an eyebrow at him. “What’re you doin’, laughing by yourself like an idiot?”

“Nothin’,” says Osamu. The moonlight cuts in through the window, but becomes soft as it cradles the side of Atsumu’s face. The world has always seemed to unfold around him. Osamu’s breath comes to a halt in the bottom of his throat, where all of the feelings he’s kept for years bubble up, waiting to be spoken aloud. “Your face is stupid.”

Atsumu snorts and presses his face in Osamu’s shoulder. “So’s yours. We have the same face.” He starts playing with the hem of Osamu’s shirt sleeve, fingers warm against Osamu’s skin, and Osamu squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself not to do something they’ll both regret.

Luckily the cab pulls up to Atsumu’s place shortly after that. One thousand and six hundred yen, he chants to himself. Divided by two, that’s eight hundred. Atsumu owes him eight hundred yen, eight hundred yen— 

Chanting the number in his mind doesn’t stop his mind from wandering, not with Atsumu clinging to him like a lifeline as they ascend the stairs. Not with the way his t-shirt slips off to one side, exposing his collarbone like an indecent invitation.

Osamu unlocks the door, stumbles in, and dumps Atsumu unceremoniously on the couch.

“Ow, what the fuck!”

“Shut up and sit still. I’ll get you something to drink.” 

He’s proud of the fact that he’s able to walk in a straight line as he goes to the fridge and grabs two bottles of water. He tosses one to Atsumu, and Atsumu makes a motion as if he’s going to spike it before realizing and catching it in both hands. Osamu can’t help it— he bursts out laughing, a full-belly laugh that has him toppling over next to Atsumu on the couch.

“Shut _up!”_ says Atsumu indignantly, blush colouring his cheeks. He drinks diligently until the cup is empty and then slams it down on the coffee table.

It’s nearly midnight by now, and the house is silent and dark. Osamu gets up to flick the light on, if only to get up and get away from Atsumu. He… should probably go. It’s getting late.

“You don’t hafta take care of me,” says Atsumu, uncharacteristically quiet. “’S not like you’re that much older. Only by like, ten minutes.”

“I don’t do it ’cause I’m older,” says Osamu. “I do it ‘cause you’re a useless piece of shit who can’t take care of yourself.”

“Then stay,” says Atsumu. 

Osamu blinks. He expected to be challenged, not— this. Atsumu reaches out and grabs the hem of Osamu’s shirt. Osamu lets himself be pulled back down onto the couch. 

“Okay.” Osamu is stunned by his own voice breaking the silence. “I’ll stay.” 

He expects Atsumu to turn on the television, or to fall asleep right there on the couch. But instead, Atsumu just looks at him, eyes dark. 

“So? What were you doin’ with Yachi?”

Osamu groans and fists a hand in his hair in frustration. “She came into the shop to buy onigiri. What’re you getting all worked up for? You dated Hinata Shoyo for a year.”

“You went out with Suna first,” says Atsumu, and _god_ Osamu wants to rip his hair out.

“That was _years_ ago. We broke up after three months.”

“I don’t care.” Atsumu goes quiet again. “You’re the one who didn’t want me first.” 

Osamu’s throat feels tight. The words ricochet in his brain like pinballs.

 _How could I not want you?_ he wants to say. _How could I? You’re the beat of my heart, the blood that runs through my veins. How could I ever get rid of you when you’ve always been my other half?_

But of course he can’t say that. Instead, he says— 

“Who says I don’t want you?”

“Well, do you?” says Atsumu. He leans closer, gaze burning hot and intense. “Because I want to. I’ve never stopped wanting to. Not even— not even with Shoyo.”

Osamu is fairly sure that he’s a terrible person for being _proud_ of the fact that his brother thought about him while dating someone else. But he doesn’t care. Because he’s never stopped wanting this, either.

In an instant they’re both on each other. Their lips collide like they’ve never been apart, and Osamu grabs a fistful of Atsumu’s shirt to pull him onto his own lap. Atsumu moans and melts into him, curling his hands in Osamu’s hair, kissing him with unmatched hunger, like he’s drinking him in.

Atsumu smells like gym equipment. He tastes like alcohol and home. And he feels— _ah—_ he feels like the last puzzle piece snapping into place. Osamu rolls his hips up, grinding his own half-hard cock against Atsumu’s clothed crotch, and Atsumu moans into the crook of his neck and grinds back, meeting him halfway. 

Osamu would be content like this, just rocking against each other, slow and sensual and everything he craved. Atsumu, though, pushes an impatient hand up Osamu’s shirt, pawing at his chest. “Ngh, get this thing off.” He tugs at Osamu’s shirt, hilariously uncoordinated for one of the nation’s best setters. 

Osamu chuckles under his breath and removes his own shirt, allowing Atsumu to slide his hands over his chest. The same hands that so often cracked him across the jaw and left countless bruises. The same hands that set to him countless times, perfect tosses sailing through the air. Something stutters in Osamu’s ribcage. To shut it up, he removes Atsumu’s shirt too and kisses him, grinding his hips against him.

“Ngh— _ah—”_ Atsumu bites down on his fist, unsuccessfully muffling the noises he makes as he rocks back against Osamu. “Can you hurry _up?_ When I said get these off, I meant pants, too.” 

Osamu is tempted to keep going like this and make Atsumu come in his pants. But he wants to take it slow, too, wants to see Atsumu naked and spread out underneath him. Before, it had always been with clothes bunched up and pushed out of the way just enough to hastily get off. Whatever happened below the waist stayed like that, or so he’d thought. Until over time, his chest grew full to bursting with things he couldn’t possibly find words for.

So he sinks down to his knees, with Atsumu still on the couch. Atsumu shifts around and looks at him curiously, but it takes him only a second to catch on. Osamu positions himself between Atsumu’s legs. 

“Lift your hips,” he says. Atsumu does so, and Osamu tugs his pants down. 

He takes his sweet time, pressing kisses up Atsumu’s thighs. He tugs the tender skin between his teeth and bites, just hard enough to hurt, and Atsumu throws a hand over his face and groans. Osamu trails his mouth up to the junction between thigh and crotch, and lets his breath ghost over the outline of Atsumu’s cock without touching it. When Atsumu whines high in his throat, Osamu smiles to himself.

“Stop _teasing,”_ Atsumu complains. His thigh jerks up, threatening to knee Osamu in the face, but Osamu holds him down effortlessly. Just to prove his point, Osamu does it again, leaving a bite only a hair’s width away from where Atsumu’s briefs are stained with precome.

“God, I hate you,” Atsumu grits out. “I should’ve eaten you in the womb.” 

“Hm,” says Osamu, dragging his tongue along Atsumu’s thigh and watching him squirm. “But then we wouldn’t get to do this, would we?” 

Taking pity, he pulls Atsumu’s boxers down. Atsumu’s cock springs free, visibly hard, and Osamu licks his lips, before leaning in and taking the head of Atsumu’s cock into his mouth. Atsumu _gasps_ , fist tightening in Osamu’s hair. Osamu takes the encouragement at face value, and sinks down on Atsumu’s cock, taking him all the way in until his nose is buried in the hairs at the base.

 _“Fuck,”_ says Atsumu, shakily. His hips jump, thrusting a little harder than he means to, because he’s always been a creature of instinct. Osamu doesn’t mind. He’s reminded of a banana deep-throating contest they once had, back when they were thirteen— Osamu had won that one. He suppresses the urge to smile and focuses on bobbing his head up and down, hollowing out his cheeks, and memorizing every delicious noise that slips out of Atsumu’s throat. 

Osamu knows the telltale signs of Atsumu getting close. That, at least, he hasn’t forgotten from all the times they experimented together. But he’s surprised when Atsumu shoves him away by the shoulder, and says, “Wait.” 

He looks up at Atsumu in inquiry, and almost wishes he didn’t because Atsumu looks— wrecked, cheeks rosy and eyes glassy, and Osamu’s dick jumps in his boxers. 

“I just— not yet.” Atsumu bites his bottom lip, looking at Osamu with half-lidded eyes. “Want you to fuck me.” 

Osamu curses under his breath. “I don’t have any condoms,” says Osamu. “Do you?” 

Atsumu shakes his head. “I don’t care. Just want you.”

“‘Tsumu,” says Osamu, his brain grasping at some semblance of logic while all the blood rushes to his dick. “We shouldn’t—“

“‘Samu, _please,”_ says Atsumu, voice cracking, and _god_ he looks debauched. His brother’s never begged for anything in his life, preferring instead to simply take what he wanted, even if it meant wrenching it away from someone else. But with Osamu— and only Osamu— his eyes are tender and pleading.

Osamu gives in. 

Atsumu catches the split second Osamu’s expression changes. A cocky little grin emerges on his face, and fuck if it isn’t somehow endearing. He dips a hand under the couch and fishes out a bottle of lube, handing it wordlessly to Osamu.

Osamu tries not to think about Hinata Shoyo. “What the fuck was this doing under your couch?” 

“I dunno.” Atsumu shrugs and sticks out his tongue. 

Osamu grits his teeth and breathes out through his nose, reminding himself that Atsumu does not stop being exasperating just because Osamu also finds him sexy sometimes. Osamu grabs a tissue and wipes the bottle, just in case, before squeezing the lube onto his hand. 

Atsumu spreads his legs, no further instruction needed. Osamu hoists himself back onto the couch, slots himself between Atsumu’s thighs and traces a finger around his entrance, cursing under his breath at the way Atsumu twitches under his touch. He pushes a finger in and Atsumu whines, and he thrusts it in and out just to watch Atsumu squirm. It almost feels like a power trip. Osamu wonders if this is how Atsumu feels, having all those spikers in the palm of his hand— but it’s different, too. Even now, far beyond the lines of the court, Atsumu is the one who has him wrapped around his finger. 

He slides in a second finger, and Atsumu _whimpers_ and clenches around him, toes curling.

“Fuck,” Osamu breathes out. “You’re so tight.” 

He tries, again, to pry away the phantom fingers constricting around his throat as he thinks of Hinata, or whoever else Atsumu has been with. But then Atsumu ducks his head and says, “It’s been a while.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, I mean— I’ve never had anybody else _inside_ me.” Atsumu’s face is flushed pink, face twisted sideways into the couch. “Just you.”

Like a punch to the gut, all of the desire acclimating in Osamu since the start of the night comes to a greedy head. He needs to be inside Atsumu, he _needs Atsumu,_ so badly that he can barely focus on stretching him open with a third, can barely tone down whatever’s thrumming through his veins until he can’t hold back anymore.

He gives himself a few strokes before lining up against Atsumu’s entrance and pushing in. Slow, slow— he lets out a long groan as he gets reacquainted the feeling of being inside Atsumu. The pleasure is indescribable, and the look on Atsumu’s face even more so.

This time Atsumu doesn’t have to tell him to pick up the pace. The hot, perfect tightness of Atsumu all around him spurs him on enough that he abandons his self-control, grabs on to Atsumu’s hips and starts to fuck him in earnest.

Atsumu yelps, fingers digging into Osamu’s arm, and Osamu tries to slow down.

“No no, don’t fuckin’ stop— jeez, you’re so _stupid._ It feels good, alright?”

“Stop talking shit about me when I’m literally inside you.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

Atsumu’s glare is wiped away when Osamu jerks his hips forward, hard, and he clutches onto Osamu for dear life. Atsumu wraps his legs around Osamu’s waist and hooks his ankles together, pulling him in closer. The gesture makes Osamu’s head spin. He pistons his hips forward, again and again, and Atsumu cries out, tears budding at the corners of his eyes and catching on his eyelashes. 

“Fuck, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu breathes out. “You’re gorgeous.”

Atsumu flushes a deep shade of red, and, in a rather uncharacteristic gesture, brings a hand up to his face.

“Shy?”

“Fuck no,” says Atsumu, but his voice cracks. “Just— stop— _talking,_ and _ah—_ touch me.”

Atsumu’s cock is hard and leaking, bobbing against his stomach with their movements, and Osamu wraps a hand around it and strokes, cherishing the gasp that Atsumu lets out. He jerks Atsumu off and fucks into him harder, deeper, lifting Atsumu up off the couch until Atsumu shakes and tenses up and comes hard without warning.

Osamu keeps fucking Atsumu through his orgasm until Atsumu’s oversensitive and whining, his fingers digging painfully into Osamu’s shoulder blade. It stings but it feels good, knowing he’s the one that made his brother so desperate, so needy. But it’s the moment after— when Atsumu notices how hard he’s grabbing on to Osamu and loosens his grip, shakily running his fingers over the wound as if in apology— that’s what pushes Osamu over the edge. 

They’ve done this since they were kids, after all. Dig their claws into each other only to kiss it better. 

When he comes to again, Atsumu is still next to him, chest heaving and catching his breath. His hair is a mess, his dark roots peeking out underneath the blond dye, as if saying, _hey, remember me? For all the effort you went through to distinguish yourself from me, I’m still here._

Osamu reaches out and smooths down his hair, petting the strands that stick out at awkward angles. Reacting on instinct, Atsumu twists his head away and shoves Osamu aside by the wrist. It’s such a habitual motion, the act of pulling each other close and then pushing each other away. The tired scowl on Atsumu’s face is playful. But something gnaws at Osamu regardless. The same part of him that hated losing at volleyball, perhaps, still hates being cast aside, even for a moment, by the person he needs most.

Atsumu has always been the one to reach out and grab the things he considers _his_. But maybe Osamu is the one who has a harder time letting go. 

Instinctively, he wraps his arms around Atsumu. For all that went on between them tonight, he’s terrifyingly unsure of the future. He doesn’t want to go home to an empty bed. He doesn’t want to go back to Atsumu ignoring his texts, dating someone else, doesn’t want to go to Atsumu’s games like a good brother and pretend like he’s not the only thing on the court that takes his breath away. The more he adjusts to life without Atsumu, the less he wants to live it. 

He tenses up for a moment when Atsumu doesn’t react. But then Atsumu turns on his side and wraps his arms around Osamu, too, holding him close with the same sense of urgency that thrums through Osamu’s chest, and Osamu opens his eyes to see Atsumu smiling at him. It’s the kind of smile he knows like the back of his hand, the kind of exhilarating, breathtaking smile that comes after a service ace, or a soul-swap delayed spike. In that moment, something heavy lifts from Osamu’s chest, and he can breathe again.

“Why’re you so cuddly all of a sudden? You were never like this before. Thought you’d kick me out and make me shower.” Atsumu winces at the wetness of the come that still covers his abs. “Eugh. Now _I_ want to kick me out and make me shower.” 

Osamu laughs, feeling it reverberate through his whole body, along with the knowledge that _they’re going to be okay._ “Together?” he offers.

“Yeah.” Atsumu smiles. “That sounds good.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the fic, I'd be happy to hear from you in the comments <3 
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/tsumusamuwu)


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